


lack of blessings

by WildlyJourneyed



Category: Original Work
Genre: Asiel is much much older than Merrick but likes to look otherwise lmao, M/M, Mild Gunplay, perceived age difference
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-16
Updated: 2020-08-16
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:34:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25944439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WildlyJourneyed/pseuds/WildlyJourneyed
Summary: Someone settles next to him, a pale elbow knocking into the arm that’s holding his glass.  Merrick drank too much of the whisky for it to slosh over the edges but he pulls back anyway, nearly recoiling from the slight body that’s leaning on the counter beside him.  He glances over to meet polycoria eyes.  Too many pupils set in stringy grey irises, all focused on him.“Sionza Springs.  Not your most idyllic hideaway, but certainly your most remote.  Can’t seem to stay completely away from people, can you?”
Relationships: Asiel/Merrick





	lack of blessings

It’s easier in these modern times to get lost, to take train after train until the maze of railways carries Merrick into some awful desert town at the edge of nowhere. Sometimes he just needs to get away, and that means buying tickets blindly without actually knowing where he’s going. A week after he leaves New York he ends up in what he thinks is Arizona, but all deserts look the fucking same to him. It could be Utah or Texas, and it still wouldn’t matter. The station is empty when he gets off the train, and that’s all he wants. Some quiet. Blessedly alone.

He counts his blessings sparingly these days.

There’s a motel across from the station and Merrick immediately books a room, paying cash while asking if he can smoke out back. The clerk waves him off with some advice to buy cigarettes from the liquor store, not the gas station, and he manages a twist of a grin in return.

The air is dry, dusty. It settles on his bare forearms as he rolls up his sleeves and pulls a bent cigarette from his breast pocket. No one is outside to see him flick his fingers and light it with thin air. Small magic like this is safe, untraceable. It’s the larger miracles that get him into trouble. Running a hand through greasy blond hair, Merrick drags heavily off his cigarette and stares up at the empty blue sky. Fuck, but he hates small towns. Too barren and sad. Less places to hide. But it’s far enough away, and the trains always throw off the scent for a few days. It’ll do. It’ll have to.

The place has ‘spring’ in the name, which is almost always ironic since these kinds of towns are usually in drought. This one isn’t any different. After throwing his ratty duffel bag into his equally ratty motel room, Merrick wanders the few blocks of downtown. He finds the liquor store right away, the one building that looks like it’s been upgraded in the last three decades. The bar is right next to it, a few shadowy figures just beyond the dusty windows. He hesitates between the two, before choosing the bar.

There’s low chatter, and while the four patrons inside glance up at him when he enters, they lose interest quickly. Merrick smiles, more of a grimace, and knows it’s because he’s fallen into a vagrant state. Days without a shave or shower, days of stale sandwiches and cigarettes; he’s still got a stain on the collar of his shirt. It doesn’t matter. He takes a seat at the bar and orders whisky. 

He’s used to the bustle of the cities, but it’s getting harder to stay in one place for too long. It’s so easy to move and yet so hard to get cash. Honest cash. Merrick stares into his heavy glass tumbler and wonders how much dirty money can buy him this whole damn town. Just do a few miracles for people who don’t deserve them, then get this place afloat again. It’s a useless fantasy. He has it anyway.

Someone settles next to him, a pale elbow knocking into the arm that’s holding his glass. Merrick drank too much of the whisky for it to slosh over the edges but he pulls back anyway, nearly recoiling from the slight body that’s leaning on the counter beside him. He glances over to meet polycoria eyes. Too many pupils set in stringy grey irises, all focused on him.

“Sionza Springs. Not your most idyllic hideaway, but certainly your most remote. Can’t seem to stay completely away from people, can you?” Asiel rests his head on his hand, the other playing with a gaudy silver pendant. He’s dressed like some goth punk, too much black for a desert town. No one in the bar notices him. The bartender is frozen in place, her hands halfway to a bottle of vodka.

“Took you quicker than usual.” Merrick grumbles. He drains the rest of his tumbler, and time starts again. Asiel’s smile is languid, disarming as he waves off the bartender without looking at her.

“Deserts are easier. Less bodies, less noise. Don’t pick the Mojave, next time.” Another whisky is set down in front of him. Merrick downs half, the burn of it like smoke curling in his throat. Asiel’s eyes flicker to his adam’s apple, watching the motion, and Merrick pretends not to notice.

“Where are we?” He asks instead, voice rough.

“California.”

“Well, shit. Hate this fucking state.”

Asiel laughs, high and clear and drawing far too much attention. His eyes finally meet the bartender’s and Merrick watches the woman stiffen, feels the air around them cool. So much for a low profile. Merrick slaps down a twenty on the bar top and grabs Asiel by the upper arm, knowing that the god won’t fight him. He can feel the bartender’s stare on them all the way out.

“You’re a fucking menace. I come to places like this for some peace, and you always wanna fuck with the mortals too much.” The sun is still high, their shadows short and squat as Merrick continues to drag Asiel down the dusty street. It’s only once they round a corner that he pulls free of Merrick, his lips stretching into a grin that’s far too mean to be anything but sincere.

“They all come to me eventually. It’s not like a little reminder of mortality every once in a while ever killed too many, too soon.” The air is always so much colder around Asiel. Merrick fights the urge to step closer, instead turning his back and walking towards the motel.

“Well, I’m not in the mood for that shit.” He forgot to buy more cigarettes, and now he regrets having gone to the bar instead of the liquor store. “Didn’t come here to get acquainted with anybody, so don’t drag me into your schemes.”

“For all that you act so miserly, the only one you actually want to get away from is me.” Asiel’s fingers are cool, a relief against the heat, though Merrick can’t help but tense as they curve around the back of his neck. “Pity how I’m also the only one you’ll never get away from.”

“Pity.” Merrick repeats, his throat suddenly dry. But they’ve both known this for ages now, far longer than either of them have a right to be complaining about it. And Merrick isn’t complaining, not really. Sometimes he feels what Asiel does: that this is all just a game of chase, of hide and seek, and Merrick will always lose.

They walk in silence after that, Asiel keeping a casual hand on the back of Merrick’s neck like it isn’t awkward for a skinny five foot seven goth to be leading a grungy six foot vagabond into a motel.

Once the room door shuts behind them Merrick shoves his gun into Asiel’s side. Both of them know it’s a useless threat, and both of them tense anyway.

“It’s such a pain when you damage this body, you know?” The gun presses further into Asiel’s ribs. The god doesn’t stop smiling, a cruel slant of his lips as his fingers slide up Merrick’s forearm.

“All you have to do is slink back to the underworld to heal.” He ignores the way Asiel’s clever fucking fingers play with the pulse point of his wrist, pressing lightly on the thick vein there.

“An inconvenience, really. We could have so much more fun than that.” They always have fun, Merrick thinks sullenly. At least Asiel always is.

“You know I’m looking for space. I’ll have it if I knock you back down where you belong.” Asiel laughs at that and leans into the blunt prodding of the gun.

“Oh, in that case, by all means. Shoot away. I’ll see about summoning you home for an extended patrol on the shores of purgatory.”

Empty threats, all of it. Merrick is so fucking tired. That’s what he tells himself when Asiel is able to maneuver the gun away, getting closer to Merrick in the process. The barrel rests under Merrick’s chin, warm from the sun after having been concealed by magic all day. One of Asiel’s hands tangle in his chest holster, the disillusionment on it evaporating under the god’s touch.

If he wanted to pull away, Asiel wouldn’t stop him. But he doesn’t want to pull away. He’s too tired. He looks down into Asiel’s eyes and watches the broken pupils shift, all focusing on him. The hand in his chest holster slides up to cradle his jaw instead, Asiel’s thumb resting on his lower lip.

“The more you run from me, the more tired you’ll be. I don’t keep you on a very short leash: just enough of one to keep you whole.” There’s a softness to Asiel’s voice, one Merrick doesn’t trust no matter how much Asiel speaks the truth. He closes his eyes and leans into the thin hand on his cheek.

“I don’t want it.” He grumbles, drawing a puff of laughter from the other.

“No, I suppose you never did.”

Yet there they are, standing so close that it doesn’t take much for Asiel to trail the gun over his chin. The thumb on his lower lip presses, parts, and Merrick just lets his god push both thumb and gun barrel into his mouth. He shudders at the feel but otherwise stays still, opening his eyes as he waits for Asiel to move.

“You like not having a choice, though. It’s so much easier to let me choose for you.” There’s no kindness, no warmth, in Asiel’s expression. Death isn’t compassionate. But there’s deep understanding, a bitter kind of sorrow etched into the frown on Asiel’s lips, and that’s enough. It would have to be enough.

“If you keep letting me choose for you, though, it may reinstall a sense of ‘fate’ in you. Of destiny. But remember: it’s all according to my will. You’re tied to death, and I never let mine go.” There’s no point in waiting for Merrick to answer. Asiel presses back, forcing Merrick to step quickly or risk tripping. The backs of his knees hit the bed and he sits, gun awkwardly sliding in his mouth as Asiel clambers over him. He doesn’t dare move his hands, not even to grasp at Asiel’s hips. Instead he curls his fingers into the scratchy duvet and waits.

Asiel traces his saliva slick thumb over Merrick’s cheek and demands, silently, to be seen. Merrick stares into the eyes of death and relaxes his jaw, knowing he’s already been seen in return. The gun pushes further in, Asiel’s finger resting lightly on the trigger.

“I think I’ll take you home.” He whispers, leaning in close. Narrow lips brush over stubble and curve into the place behind Merrick’s jaw, just below his ear. “I think I’ve let you play up here a little too long.”

Merrick knows he’s drooling around the gun and instinctively he swallows, the barrel knocking against his teeth. Asiel’s other hand comes to rest on his throat, not squeezing, no reason to when the real threat is one Merrick isn’t even resisting. They stay like that for a moment, just breathing as Asiel straddles him and Merrick grasps at the bed sheets. He keeps waiting.

The gun slowly leaves his mouth, though the tip of it plays against Merrick’s lips a moment longer. It’s wet, shiny warm in the incandescent lights of the room, and Merrick goes cross eyed to see it. That finally breaks the quiet of the room as Asiel snorts and leans back, using the hand he’d had on Merrick’s throat to grab his shoulder for balance instead.

“But maybe not. Maybe you need to be left to your own devices a little longer. I think I’d prefer to see you flounder a bit.” The gun ends up on the bed, both of Asiel’s hands now on Merrick’s shoulders. “You know how to come back to me when you get too lonely. Mortals can’t see you the way I can.”

Cold lips finally slot over chapped, warm ones. Merrick’s hands clench further into the sheets of the bed, refusing to get entangled in this, but it doesn’t stop him kissing back.

Then the room is empty but for him and a spit slick gun, and Merrick shuts his eyes against the barrenness of it. For the first time in ages he doesn’t feel eyes on him, and he realizes it for what it is. He is actually alone.

He’s too afraid to call it a blessing.


End file.
